


Postquam incidit ergo propter incidit

by StJason



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:43:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StJason/pseuds/StJason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reichenach. Sherlock had it all planned out. But things went wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postquam incidit ergo propter incidit

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cell Call](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/23555) by Stephen Jones. 



I stood on the ledge-top, dreading what I had to do next, when a cab pulled up and he got out. God, no. I was prepared to do this across town, but right here?  
...needs to be done...  
Press down the three. John's number. I could see the tiny figure reach into the pocket of that ugly coat. It rang twice before he answered. “Hello?”  
“John.”  
“Hey, Sherlock, you okay?” He sounded tense. Concerned. Perfect. I swallowed and began my first volley.  
“Turn around and walk back the way you came now.”  
“No, I’m coming in.”  
Of course John would say that. Headstrong lout. But that would ruin everything. I needed the plan to go through. So much prepared. So much depending on split-second timing. If I had to talk him out…  
“Just do as I ask.” Did that sound too desperate? If they checked the records, would they pick up on that? I took a breath and said more steadily “Please.”  
“Where?” he began to walk back. Dear god, maybe there would be a chance at this afterall?  
“Stop there.”  
Something in his stance, the cant of his shoulders. He was upset. Could turn from fear to anger at any moment. “Sherlock?”  
I had to do something to keep him there. Keep him scared. “Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop.”  
“Oh God.” I could almost picture it from his view. Stark black silhouette against the gray sky. Couldn't have chosen a better day.  
Now. The hard part. To sell the lie. I briefly flashed back to my Secondary drama coach. Mr. Moore. I hadn't thought of him in a long time. No time for sentiment. Timing has to be perfect.  
I pinched just above my hip through my shirt. Hopefully they wouldn't see it. Just enough to bring a note of pain into my voice. “I… I… I can’t come down, so we’ll… we’ll just have to do it like this.” That sounded good. Did it sound good? Focus. Control, Sherlock.  
“What’s going on?”  
He sounded scared. Maybe it sounded too good? Tone it down a little. Just a little.  
“An apology. It’s all true.”  
“Wh-what?”  
“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”  
That surprisingly hurt. I don't like to think of myself as prideful, but I do think I have some reasons. I found myself glancing at Moriarty. Even dead he looked smug.  
“Why are you saying this?”  
This was going to be the hard part to sell. I reached down, found the parts that hurt. My mother. That private school. That huge echoy tomb where I'd spend my summers, desperate to get away, and dreading going back to school…  
I try for a break in my voice. “I’m a fake.” I'm actually a little surprised how easy that was.  
“Sherlock…”  
“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly… in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.” Excellent. I actually have to blink away a tear.  
“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met… the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”  
“Nobody could be that clever.”  
“You could.” Damn. Double damn. Clever John. Quick, come up with a plausible excuse… I choke out a laugh to buy a moment while my mind races.  
“I researched you.” Ugh. Horrible. Go with it. “Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you.” He's never going to buy this. Dammit. “It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”  
“No. All right, stop it now.” Did he buy it? Or has he caught on? Have to keep going either way.  
I watched as he finally tipped over into anger, and started moving again. He didn't catch on. I find myself oddly disappointed, even though that was exactly the plan.  
“No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.” Did that sound too panicked? Did anyone notice?  
He stopped, raised his hand to me as if conceding the argument. “All right.”  
“Keep your eyes fixed on me.” Oh, god. That sounds like a stupid stage act. Focus, Holmes! A sudden inspiration hits. I've ditched my planned script anyway, might as well keep going. “Please, will you do this for me?”  
“Do what?” He sounds cautious. Upset. Good.  
“This phone call – it’s, er… it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”  
He reacts. Good. It hit him. “Leave a note when?” I can hear it in his voice. My own heart races a bit. The key figure in this is now convinced.  
“Goodbye, John.”  
“No. Don’t.”  
That should be enough. I can see most of my conspirators below already. I begin to lean forward, taking a last moment tally… there… wait. The basket that we so carefully crafted for me to land in. It's being held up by a man on a bicycle. No good. Not good at all. This has already taken too long! I go back to the phone.  
“John!” I say, like a man who is trying to work up his courage. But John isn't listening. He's charging forward. I can hear him shouting out “No Sherlock!” over the wind.  
“John, I'm going to do it now.” God, that sounded hackneyed. The basket is free from the bicyclist. I watch as he rides away quick. Why? Did he steal something? Did Moriarty somehow find out and sabotage even this? I find my eyes flicking back at his corpse. My shoes move on the ledge. A slight grit under them. Slippery. Someone could fall from here quite easily. A breeze catches me, making me momentarily lose my balance, threatening to go over the edge. I feel a moment of virtigo, the wind brushing past my face and catching on my coat adds to the illusion. I gather myself and stand straight on the ledge and look down.  
John is in the middle of the street. The man on the bicycle doesn't see him in time. A glancing blow. No! John has to see! He has to report! Nobody else will do! Nobody else has the weight behind their opinion.  
“John! John! Are you alright?” Stupid, Sherlock. Suicidal men don't ask. I watched in horror as my carefully-staged set-piece was falling apart before me.  
“Sher…” John has gotten his phone. He's unsteady. “But. I can see…”  
The ambulance arrives just in time. Which is to say, the wrong time, as I haven't thrown myself off the roof yet. The idiots are loading someone on the gurney. I have to grind my teeth to stop from shouting at them.  
I've given up on this plan. It's all gone wrong. Damage control. “John. Listen to me. You need to get out of here.” No subterfuge now.  
“Sherlock… I'll be right there.” John isn't even looking at me anymore. I can almost feel the itch of a crosshaired scope settling in on my neck.  
I can hear him through the phone talking to the crowd. “I'm a doctor. Let me through. Let me through please.”  
Some are my plants. They are sticking to the job, getting in the way. Worse and worse.  
“John. Please listen. You need to get out of here. Now.”  
He raises the phone to his ear. His breathing is unsteady. “Sherlock?” The first few pips of the rain that it has been threatening all morning begin to ping off the rooftop around me. Of all the inappropriate times. My phone bleeps that it is low on power.  
“John. I don't have much time. You must get everyone. Molly. Mrs. Hudson. Get them to Lestrade. It may be their only chance. Men are coming for them, John.”  
“Sherlock, how are you talking to me..?” God. He must have hit his head when he was knocked over. He sounds confused. More confused then usual.  
“John. Focus. There are more important things right now. Moriarty's men. Are coming for you all. Get them to someplace safe. I will try and… John… are you listening?”  
The phone beeped again. Now that it started, the rain began in earnest. Already the outer edges of London were graying away, lost in the distance. Even the traffic was muffled in the steady sound.  
“Sherlock. They put you in the ambulance.” His voice was weary, cracked, scared.  
“Nonsense. Now get out of the rain. Get Molly. And Mrs. Hudson. Get my files and get to Lestrade. The police might be able to protect you.” I hoped they would. Or at least not screw things up too much. The rain was coming down hard now. The sky darkened. This would have been perfect if everything hadn't gone to pot.  
“Rain? Police? Sherlock… it's not raining…” John's voice was just a whisper as my phone slowly ticked off the last of it's power. He was kneeling in the middle of the street. Kneeling!  
I had gone from perfectly timed orchestration to sudden urgency, and worst of all was that John was simply not getting the point. He didn't even notice the downpour I almost wanted to run down there just to boot him into action.  
“John. Do this.” I said trying to remain clear and concise when all I wanted to do was scream at him “This last thing. Go. Now.”  
“Sherlock?” It was raining hard enough now that it threatened to drown out the tinny little voice in my ear. “Just. Keep talking to me. Don't stop. I'm going to follow the ambulance.” He waved for a taxi. “Wait… where are they taking you?”  
I couldn't believe the man! Did he not understand anything? “No! Not the ambulance! The people, John, the people! Save our people!”  
A black cab pulled over, and John held the door open for an older lady, mid-sixties. Affluent, but not wealthy. She must have been heading into one of the nearby buildings, as she didn't even bother to open her umbrella. She strode off in a neat clip and John got in the cab. I could hear him tell the driver to go to the nearest hospital.  
“John! Forget the bloody ambulance!”  
“Sherlock.” I could barely hear between the rain and the dying battery. “I'm on my way.” In seconds he was out of sight. And I was standing drenched on a rooftop. I wonder why they hadn't taken their shot yet.  
John couldn't do this. I would have to. I lept down from the ledge and walked to the door, making plans. My phone gave off another pitiful bleep. So I stuffed it into a pocket and began planning. First, I would need to disappear from this building.  
I admit it. I was so engrossed in my planning, I walked to the wrong part of the roof. The door was on the other side. Sturdy, security door. Strange they choose to paint it that colour. Wait… Wasn't it on the other side of the roof? Surely I walked straight from it to Moriarty and the ledge? A faint memory… the wind blowing past me, a moment of vertigo. The basket in the wrong place…  
The rain was coming down hard now. Difficult to make out buildings around the rooftop. I realized what I was doing: Standing in the rain trying to remember where the door right in front of me was.  
The lights in the stairwell were out. I didn't remember that either. Nor the faint smell. Sulfurous. Perhaps something caught fire below? Didn't matter not my concern. It was a long, dark trip down those stairs. My phone gave a last despairing beep. I fished it out. No bars. I was about to turn it off, when… I realize how unlikely it was, but as long as that phone was on, there was a slim chance that something could get through. A last message, or call. Or something. It was probably stupid of me. But somehow, that last glowing streak of power on that tiny screen brought me strength on that long, dark trip. So long as there was just a little power left, there was hope.  
It was very dark. It was very long.

**Author's Note:**

> ...not quite there. I need to do something with this... not sure what, though. Thoughts?
> 
>  
> 
> Transcript taken from: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/
> 
> Inspired in part by “Cell Call” by Stephen Jones, as appearing on Psuedopod. http://pseudopod.org/2013/02/01/pseudopod-319-cell-call/


End file.
